Paolo Roversi

December 9, 2025

PRPaolo Roversi
EOEmmanuel Olunkwa

Paolo Roversi is an Italian-born fashion photographer. Born in Ravenna in 1947, he began his career as a reporter before moving to Paris in 1973, where encounters with photographers such as Erwin Blumenfeld, Sarah Moon, and Guy Bourdin shifted his practice toward the luminous, dreamlike language that would define it. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Roversi became a central presence in the pages of Vogue Italia, Vogue Paris, i-D, and Arena Homme+, producing portraits and fashion stories that have since become canonical. Working from his Paris studio, established in the late 1970s, he developed a singular approach defined by long exposures, restrained palettes, and an openness to chance. His photographs have been exhibited at institutions including the Maison Européenne de la Photographie, the Moderna Museet, and the Hayward Gallery.

In September 2021, he photographed me in Studio Luce, his Paris studio, for i-D’s Winter issue guest-edited by Arthur Jafa, an encounter that revealed the quiet intensity and generosity of his practice. He continues to work in Paris, adapting intuitively to the shifting landscape of fashion and technology while remaining devoted to the mystery at the center of image-making. This conversation took place in December 2025.

PRPaolo Roversi
EOEmmanuel Olunkwa

Where do your photographs come from? Has your reason for making images changed?

I started as a journalist, doing simple reportage and making portraits. My work was very direct then, without fantasy or dream. But when I entered the fashion world, everything shifted. Imagination became an important part of the day-to-day—almost the point of it entirely—and that changed everything for me. It opened another door, not just in my work but in the world around it. There was an evolution happening at the time, in culture and in photography, and fashion allowed me to step into a more poetic and mysterious space. I’m still connected to those early instincts, to the person I was when I first moved here, but the creative freedom I found in fashion transformed my understanding of what a photograph could be and who I was becoming.

You once said you went to Ezra Pound’s funeral. Did that moment matter for you?

Yes, very much. Pound was a great poet and a very special, influential person. While being there was moving, I don’t connect that moment directly to my work in fashion. When I left Italy and came to Paris, I left everything behind: my education, my political context, everything from that life. I didn’t bring it with me—I couldn’t, in many ways. Paris was a new beginning for me, and I took it.

What made you move? What changed for you in Paris?

I was twenty-four when I arrived. I didn’t speak French or English, so I was a stranger in every sense. But Paris taught me how to grow up as a photographer. Very quickly, I realized my potential, so I changed my cameras, my idea of light, and the way I stood in front of the subject. I discovered new masters—Blumenfeld and Moon—and they opened my eyes to new possibilities. In Paris I understood that photography wasn’t just a technique; it could be another world.

Now that you’re older, do you see those transformations differently?

I never try to understand too much. I don’t try to analyze my work or my life, or to explain why things happened one way or another. I prefer to keep going into the mystery, to live in chance—in faith, yes, in the distance of what is possible. If I stay too close to questions, I lose the feeling.

So what held you together then? What kept you believing in your work?

I’d say curiosity, mostly—along with desire and pleasure. Taking pictures is a passion for me; it’s almost like a game. I enjoyed it so much that it has carried me forward. I didn’t need a philosophy—the passion of making the work was enough.

Did you feel like an outsider when you arrived?

Completely. I was a stranger in every way. But over time, Paris became my home. I’ve been here fifty years now, so I feel Parisian, and the city has been incredibly generous to me. We are good companions now.

Photography has changed so dramatically since the ’70s and ’80s. What has the medium taught you about your life?

My work is my life, and my life is my work—they cross constantly. I’ve given everything to photography, and it has given everything back to me. I remain curious and still want to find new ways of seeing and documenting the world. As long as I’m working, I feel alive.

When you photograph someone, is it about preparation or the encounter itself? Do you make the image or take it?

It is always the encounter. Photography is something that happens in the moment between two people, and it’s fragile, sacred, and unpredictable. I don’t think of it as simply taking a picture. The photograph contains both of us: a lot of me, a lot of the subject—we cross into each other. That is the genetic makeup of a true image.

Is there anyone you wouldn't photograph?

No. I like photographing everyone. But I connect more with people who have mystery, who keep something private, who don’t show everything at once. With them, the picture opens into the unknown. This is not a decision—it’s instinct, a pure feeling.

You’ve been in the same studio for decades. How does that shape the work?

The studio is my world. It is where I can isolate the subject, where silence exists—because outside there is only noise and movement. Inside, there is quiet, which is my sanctuary. It’s incredible, because the person is able to enter that silence with me, and together we build the image from there. I work better in my studio than anywhere else.

That makes sense. It feels like the studio isn’t just a space, but a world you’ve built with its own logic.

Can I suggest something?

Of course. What is it?

The title of the interview.

The title?

Yes. I think it should be “Wow.”

[Laughs.] “Wow”? How do you mean?

Because every time you speak, you say “wow.” It’s the word that returns, the word that opens everything for you. Maybe it’s your way of entering the image. I like that. It’s simple, but it carries wonder—and it could be a beautiful title. [Laughs.]

I didn’t realize I was doing that.

It’s a good instinct. Keep it.

When you think about your early career, did you have a grand vision for yourself? Or were you simply a man with a camera—working, responding, following instinct? Did you imagine the photographer you would become?

I think of myself as a photographer, not a camera, because the camera has no heart, but the photographer does. I never imagined having a “career.” I imagined making pictures, and the rest followed from that impulse.

How do you feel about your work today?

I still love taking pictures. The fashion world has changed completely—the way it communicates, media, magazines, the streets, even the relationships between designers and stylists. Everything is fundamentally different. But I’m not a nostalgic person. I don’t think things were better before—they were simply different. Today is also interesting, because there is still so much beauty to find in the world.

How do you meet the new world without losing yourself?

By staying open and being able to adapt. I’m not afraid of the new, because photography has always evolved, and I evolve with it. The mystery remains, and that is enough for me.

Any last words?

My last word is still “Wow.” For me, photography is always that—a small astonishment that arrives from the encounter, from the light, from something I cannot control. I have worked for many years, but I still feel that wonder, and I hope I never lose it. If I lose that feeling, I lose the impulse to make pictures.